Awakening
by littletoft
Summary: Tara wakes up in Cleavland Ohio with no memory of who she is or how she got there. Set 3 years after season 7, does not follow comic book plot - Willow's spell was temporary, Buffy and Faith are the only slayers. The old gang has started up right where they left off, in a new town with new faces and a new big bad.


**Author Notes: **This story was originally written on an RP site I belonged to. I am hoping to expand it and continue the story, though I don't know quite where it is going just yet. Please read and review!

**oo0000000000oo**

_**Prologue:**_

Tara scrunched up her eyes tight, trying to block out the sunlight steadily streaming against her long brown eyelashes. With a mental sigh she decided the effort was probably a lost cause and half heartedly reached around for a blanket. Feeling absolutly wretched she absent-mindedly pulled her legs up against her torso and scrunched up her toes for warmth. Tara smiled happily in anticipation of the cozy, soft blanket that she would soon cocoon herself in, blocking out the light and letting her sleep just a little longer. Any second now, her hand would reach the blanket she must have kicked off durning the night. 'Blanket, where did you go?' she hummed to herself quietly, her fingers still searching.

"...Any second now" she muttered with a little less humming, and a little more grump creeping into her sleep-addled voice. Frowning halfheartedly at her inability to locate any semblance of even a sheet Tara woke up a little more, still groggily and refusing to open her eyes against the harsh glare. "Who left the blinds open" she muttered - her voice garbled, rusty and child-like with sleep.

As Tara started to shake off the last vestiges of sleep she noticed for the first time what her body had been trying to tell her since the light hit the back of her eyelids - that her head was not lolled on a pillow, like one would expect . Instead, it was uncomfortably wedged against her shoulder. She could already feel a twinge forming in her neck. 'Great' she thought sleepily. 'What happened to my pillows?' Her whole body felt stiff and brittle. She lifted an arm and slung it over her face, effectively blocking out the light. Her head pounded along with each heartbeat as she shook off the last tendril of sleep from her brain. Tara wondered with a tired groan how much she had to drink last night. Or possibly if she had been hit by a bat. Or a truck. A truck was also an option. Trying to think back made her headache increase exponentially, so she stopped.

Each muscle groaned loudly in protest as Tara attempted to roll over and open her eyes. It took a couple of seconds for her vision to come into focus. The first thing she saw was her hand - clutching damp grass. Tara's vision swam again. Okay, grass. Grass was not supposed to in beds or sheets or anything else Tara slept in. Closing her eyes and screwing them up tight, Tara took a deep calming breath and then slowly peaked out again. Yep, that was still grass. She could feel each blade crunch in her hand, tickling her palms. For the first time she noticed the slight dampness of dew pressing against her back and legs. Tara let out a startled wheeze of air. 'Okay. Okay. Calm down Tara. Just take a slow look around. You can do that.' Tara furtively glanced from her hand to the ground. Not a bed, not a floor - the ground. 'Okay, grass typically grows on the ground so - so yeah, that makes sense.' Tara let out a strangled laugh, feeling hysteria start to set in. Trying not to have a panic attack Tara glanced up further, taking in the rolling slope, then the rim of the sidewalk.

Tara's inner voice rose an octave. 'I'm lying in a ditch.'

"I'm lying in a ditch.' She repeated to herself dumbly, hoping it would be less true the second time around. It wasn't.

'Okay. This is going to be okay.' Saying the words out loud made them feel slightly more real.

'Breathe.' One breath at a time she told herself.

'Tara, _breathe_.' she told herself angrily as she felt the panic start to set in, her breath coming in short gasps. "Focus on breathing Tara. You can do this."

Just as she was starting to gain back control over her emotions a thought struck her in the solar plexus. Her breath hitched as she lost any form of control over the labored breaths that wracked her frame. Tara quickly glanced down at her covered midsection, her eyes wide with panic. She took in her blue jeans, and then finally her shoes. Screwing her eyes up tight Tara slowly, haltingly, reached for the edge of her jeans with shaky fingers, feeling the closed zipper firmly pressed against her palm. Just to make sure, Tara reached slightly lower and felt her fingers skim the edge of her soft cotton underwear. Still on tight. Tara slumped her shoulders in relief and let out a shaky breath. Getting up slowly, muscles screaming in protest, Tara half limped and half crawled out of the ditch and sat down heavily on the sidewalk.

She ran her tongue over her teeth, her mouth feeling like sandpaper. Clutching her head in her hands Tara tried to remember last night. When that didn't work she tried to remember last week. When nothing came up Tara started to panic. Okay. Last year. Did she remember anything last year? Her mind was pulling a giant blank. Feeling a tear slip slowly down her cheek and off of her chin Tara tried to pull herself out of blind panic and do something constructive. She kept having to remind herself to breath. Taking a steadying breath and placing her hand firmly against the cement to prop herself up, Tara tried to think of something she could remember.

Letting her mind empty slowly Tara let her thoughts wander freely. 'My blood type is O negative.' Alright. That was something. A picture of a a kitten flashed into her brain. Black, with white patches and green eyes. 'Miss Kitty Fantastico' she thought with a jolt. She felt affection rise up in her gut, pushing back the terror that was threatening to overwhelm her. 'I have a cat.' She remembered small strong hands gently stroking the cat. The same hands clicking impatiently at a computer keyboard. She tried to remember anything past the dainty wrists but her mind was drawing a blank. Tara felt her irritation increase and she pushed it back, letting her mind empty slowly again. She was sure she looked ridiculous sitting with her legs crossed and her hands resting open upon her knees in the middle of a sidewalk, but the pose felt natural. As her mind emptied she saw a flash of red hair to accompany the hands, but that was all. She couldn't think of the name of her hometown, her high school, or her parents, she had no idea where she was currently but she could remember wrists and a cascade of red hair. "It looks like nothings going to get fixed just sitting here" Tara muttered. Sighing in frustration she staggered up slowly and looked down a street into the rising sun. The street lamps were still on, despite the sun peaking over the horizon, it's rays casting long shadows of parked cars and telephone poles over the dark asphalt. Tara guessed it was probably a little after 7 in the morning. It would explain the lack of traffic. Especially if it was the weekend. Picking a direction at random Tara started limping slowly, feeling her muscles burn with every step.

Keeping kept her eyes peeled for a pay phone or a restroom Tara made her way haltingly up the street, hoping against hope that an open hospital would be near by.

The first thing Tara came across wasn't a hospital. She wasn't that lucky. Instead her tired feet lead her to a bustling little dinner. The first thing she had seen that was open at this hour of the morning. When ever this hour was.

Hovering at the door indecisively, Tara finally decided that at the very least she could use the restroom to wash the sleep out of her eyes, and maybe rinse out the feeling of sand from her throat. Before entering the little diner she had tried to wipe away all of the leaves and grass stains from her cloths, but she was fairly certain it hadn't made much of a difference. The grass stains wouldn't come out, and her muscles groaned in protest every time she tried to bend over so she had given up entirely on removing bits of grass from the bottom half of her pants. Tara thought that maybe there would be a phone she could use inside. She still hadn't really thought about who she would call if she was able, she didn't remember any names besides her own - let alone telephone numbers. Maybe she could call ahead to the hospital. Or a police station. That was what people typically did after losing their memories, right? Her head hurt too much to think about it any more. Steeling herself, she griped the door handle firmly and pushed inward, feeling the rush of warm air brush against her exposed skin.

Tara made her way slowly to counter of the restaurant. People were literally stopping conversations mid-sentence and staring at her as she walked to the register. If she had been less tired, she would have been mortified. She might have walked out of the restaurant entirely. As it was, she barely noticed. When the silence got too intense to ignore she just wondered wearily if she looked as bad as she felt. She hoped not, because then they probably wouldn't let her use the restroom. The rational part of her brain told her she was in shock, but knowing didn't really do her much good.

"C-can you direct me to the restroom please?" She asked the startled looking hostess behind the counter, her voice sounding weak and scratchy. 'One more thing to add to the list' she thought to herself absentmindedly. 'I stutter.' The hostess nodded slowly and pointed with a shaky finger to the left of the counter. Tara tried smiling, but if the hostess face was any indication, it wasn't very reassuring. She turned slowly and started to walk towards the restroom, thinking longingly of washing the grime off of her face and taking a large gulp of water.

"Excuse me -" Tara didn't hear the distressed hostess at first, she was so entirely focused on making it the last 8 steps to the restroom.

"Excuse me, Miss?"

Tara glanced back slowly, and took in the wide eyes of 30 staring customers.

"Do - do you need any help in there? Would you like me to call - do you need an ambulance?"

Tara thought about it slowly. 'No purse, no wallet. It's not looking very likely that I have health insurance.'

"No thank you" She said politely. She hesitated for a second and then added "Though, if you could d-direct me to the nearest hospital after I get out of the restroom that would be very kind of you."

Tara shut the bathroom door quietly, leaned against it, closing her eyes and breathed in heavily. Twisting the lock slowly into place, Tara turned and made her way to the sink. Keeping her eyes trained on her hands, she turned the faucet and stuck them under the running water. Tara washed them slowly, lathering them with soap until there wasn't a speck of dust left to scrub away. Next she turned to her arms - rinse and repeat. She focused entirely on the task at hand, not wanting to face the mirror quite yet. Tara pooled water in between her cupped palms and slowly brought it up to her face. As the water ran in trickles down her chin, Tara's eyes found the mirror. She took in her face first. No visible bruises. She wondered with vague irritation what people had been staring at. The only thing on her face was a smudge of dirt under one eye. Hardly anything to write home about. Then her eyes wandered lower and she gasped involuntarily. The material above her left shoulder was deep red, with a small circle of tan skin peaking through. 'Dried blood' Tara though, her brain sluggish, it's shock quota already met for the day. Her hand reached up involuntarily, feeling the stiff material just under her collarbone. It almost looked purple Tara thought to herself, mixed in with the blue of her shirt. Like a painting project gone wrong. She lifted her shirt up slowly, looking in the mirror. Then she took her shirt entirely off, pressing her fingers to her skin, turning quickly, trying to get a look at her back. Nothing. No bullet hole. Her shirt had one, but she did not. Tara lifted her shirt back over her head with shaky fingers, not taking her eyes off of the mirror until they were blocked by blue material. She backed to the door of the restroom on unsteady feet, keeping her eyes on the mirror until her back hit the door.

She opened it after the second try, her fingers unable to grip around the lock on the first. She walked back up to the counter and said in a voice that cracked, "I think I'd like directions to the hospital now."

**oo0000000000oo**

Retrograde amnesia, the doctors at The Cleavland Clinic told her. Probably from a blow to the head. When Tara pointed out the lack of damage to her skull the doctors collectively shrugged and mentioned how these things sometimes happen - that she might never know the cause of her missing memories.

When Tara asked them to explain the shirt, and the decided lacking of a bullet hole through her body, her doctors shrugged again, and said it probably wasn't her blood - mentioning something about how a 'severely traumatic event' might also cause this type of memory loss.

Tara privately thought that switching shirts with a murder victim wouldn't be enough to make her forget her entire life history. She nodded at the doctors silently, biting her tongue.

They couldn't find anything physically wrong with her, and they weren't really interested in digging deeper for someone with lacking medical insurance and cash capital. The doctors guessed she was in her early twenties. They told her the memories might or might not come back with time, but that she should remain hopeful. Tara decided not to hold her breath. Before she left the hospital one of the nicer doctors offered to contact the local police station about taking her finger prints. Tara agreed, grabbing readily onto anything that could lead her to information about who she was. As she walked slowly to the police station Tara realized that the only way her fingerprints would be on record was if she was a criminal. She didn't feel like a criminal, but you never knew. 'Better a criminal than not knowing' Tara thought with a glum expression. 'If I get arrested at least I'll have somewhere to sleep tonight…'

Tara discovered that she was not, in fact, a registered criminal. In ohio, at least.

Nothing about the city she was in seemed familar. No street signs, no buildings, no parks. It wasn't just her missing memories. It was like the city itself had no memory of her.

Her fingerprints had not been in the system before, but they sure were now. Another thing to cross of the mental list. The desk sergeant at the police station kindly told her he would send out a missing persons bulletin with her picture on it, in case someone was looking for her and that he would contact her if anyone called looking for someone that fit her description. The police set her up in a cheap motel room for the first week, still waiting for someone to report her in. When it became apparent that Tara wasn't greatly missed, or at least not enough for anyone to come looking for her, she decided to take matters into her own hands. If the city didn't remember her, she would expand her search. She got a temporary job at the Cleveland Public Library, cataloguing old inventory. The money was a nice side benefit, along with being able to find a place to stay, but the main reason for job the inventory itself. Tara reasoned that is she looked through enough old pictures and names something would jump out at her. Then she would have at least a fragment of a memory to work with. Free access to an internet connection couldn't hurt either. It still amazed Tara that she could not remember what her parents looked like, but could still remember how to (some what) competently surf the web.

She got a lucky break three weeks into her new job. Tara had been filling old newspapers when a face framed by red hair stuck out to her. The first face that had done so since she woke up. She felt a stab of recognition run through her body and Tara's hands started shaking. "Miss Willow Rosenberg was presented with one Yale's prestigious 'distinguished undergraduate teaching' awards this past Sunday evening along with several…" the article went on but Tara had stopped reading. She was staring at the name intently feeling the hint of a memory pressing against the back of her eyelids, begging to be let out. The woman in the photograph looked about her age.

She was beautiful.

Tara stared at the photo resolutely for another 10 minutes before giving into the fact that no memory was forthcoming. She spent days trying to find out more about Willow Rosenberg. She managed to find basic information about her online, but apparently the town where she was staying had been destroyed by earthquake approximately a year ago and all records had been lost. _Sunnydale_ - Tara tasted the name on her tongue. There was no new information on Willow after the earthquake. It was like she disappeared into thin air. Tara refused to accept that the only connection she had been able to find to her old life was dead. Deciding to take a long shot, Tara drafted up a general lost connection notice and decided to put it out on the internet the next day, hoping against hope that the young woman would see it and respond.


End file.
